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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374074">What if (I forget how to fly)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrazyworldofdreams/pseuds/forgetmyname'>forgetmyname (acrazyworldofdreams)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Berlin, Bisexual Male Character, Broom Maker Harry Potter, Broom Making, Conference, Draco doesn't appear straight away, Drarry, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Firebolt history, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Harry's not in great shape, Hook-Up, M/M, More tags to be added, One Night Stands, Original Character(s), Post-Hogwarts, Ron/Hermione Parents, Silver Fox, Woodwork, non-canon kinda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:47:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,429</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374074</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrazyworldofdreams/pseuds/forgetmyname</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(This story is on Hiatus - I will finish it though!!)</p><p>Harry only feels when he's in the bedroom with an almost stranger, so much so he chases after it like a dying man thirsting after water, but what happens when after a chance encounter at a Magical Wood Conference with Draco Malfoy leads him to start feeling something again outside of the bedroom. Feelings ensue.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoWillHearAboutThis/gifts">DracoWillHearAboutThis</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you so much to the wonderful and supportive DracoWillHearAboutThis. Your endless patience astounds me. I hope you enjoy this, as much I have writing it. </p><p>My first ever proper HP fic, and my ever Drarry fic, please be gentle with me. This fandom is full of so many good fics, I hope you enjoy my contribution to the universe.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry licks along the bared flesh in front of the chin, edging further and further down the now slick torso, which is strewn across the unmade bed. He slides his hands down the firm sides, feeling the rough outline of their hips until his hands reach the dip before the promised land. He pauses taking a shallow breath in and swirls his thumbs into the slight caverns at the almost petrified body’s hip bone.</p><p>This is the part he loves the most. Getting them to the edge. The precise moment that he’s guided them towards. Body taught, and energy shimmering. He feels the tension grow underneath their skin, and it fills him up. The power he has to make or break them is more intoxicating than anything he’s ever felt. Even back when he was thought of as the most powerful person in the wizarding world, it is here. In these sheets, poised above another nameless body, where he truly comes into his power. Where something slots into place. A missing puzzle piece.</p><p>It fits, almost.</p><p>Next, he presses a kiss akin to his soothing right thumb. Steadying the body beneath him that is beginning to whimper in anticipation. The sound sending tingles along Harry’s own spine straight toward his lower regions. The flame licks low now, but soon it will grow into a furnace. Harry moves his head towards the area that is yearning for his touch. Placing light fluttery kisses around the sensitive skin. Soft hair tickles his face, but he ignores it in favour of feeling the tremors rise and the slight bucking of hips, encouraging him to do something, anything.</p><p>Harry pulls back with a wry smile on his lips. Enjoying the sensation of being desired. It almost sets an implication of something more, but it never reaches that place. Glancing at this week’s sacrifice, he notices they have their pretty blue eyes closed. It’s a shame. Those glinting irises are the reason they were chosen.</p><p>“Open your eyes” he commands.</p><p>He gets so few of his desires, he won’t be held back in this space. This is the only place he can taste the memory of desire. Eyes snap open, and he wonders what might be running through their mind. Surprise to be in bed with the oh so wonderful saviour. Grateful? No, probably not. It’s been so long. His name isn’t what it once was. When you pulled away from the spotlight and didn’t feed it, it left you to rot in the darkness. And that’s where he preferred to be. In the shade, away from the sun where you only got burnt.</p><p>No. These eyes screamed desperation and want. Want for him. No, for his body. For what he could do with his mouth. In the end, maybe that was all he was worth. A body to warm the sheets for a few hours before they returned to their meaningful lives, whilst Harry returned to his. The eyes blink and the hips kick up slightly, indicating the waiting portion is over. Usually Harry might punish them for being impatient, but tonight he feels the overwhelming need to be filled. To have everything inside of him coveted and then destroyed.</p><p>Head down once again, he finally attaches his lips to the part of the body he came for. Standing filled, and weeping. Harry sucks gently at first, not quite ready to give up the teasing. For he knows he’ll be begging later, and he wants to feel some semblance of fairness in this game. At least for a while.</p><p>He pulls off and runs his tongue up the length. The body shivers. Harry swallows in an attempt to displace the uncomfortable furry feeling in his throat. The result of one, or three, too many fire whiskey’s his brain suggests. Harry’s usual tipple of choice. They say your tastes mature as you get older, perhaps they do.</p><p>Throat clearing a failure, he resolves to use the instrument in front of him to wash away the unpleasantness. The effects of the alcohol are fading quick and Harry needs to fill its place soon. Jaw open, he eases it over the hilt, pressing his teeth to the back of his lips and lowers his mouth down. A low moan echoes through the messy room. It’s not his, so he hasn’t really taken in many of the details but it’s not a big room, nor is it tidy. Makes sense. Young male wizards, Harry has found, aren’t the tidiest of beings. Nor the cleanliest either.</p><p>Thankfully, this specimen seems to have had the decency to shower before venturing out for the evening. Blessings come in small shapes and sizes. He suppresses a giggle at his own joke yet still feels the body beneath him respond to the slight movement of his throat. Fully sheathed, Harry takes a moment to feel the fullness of its weight in his mouth.</p><p>Bent over the spread-out legs of the body, Harry isn’t in the most comfortable of positions. Almost on purpose, as if never to quite get too at home in the foreign beds he visits. But then the fullness takes over. The round pulsating, and slick feeling of pre-cum, taking up his consciousness. He breaths in deep, inhaling the smell of sex, whatever that really is. Regardless, the smell sends another tingle of want to the gap between his own legs. The body wriggles slightly, and Harry huffs out irritated at the impatience. Gratefulness is not a trait known to drunk, horny men. Unfortunately.</p><p>Pulling off finally, he begins to run his lips up and down the length at a pace of his own choosing. Feeling the glide and tension in the skin between his lips, as it drives in and out of his mouth. Harry focuses all his attention on the simple act of sucking. It becomes his whole world, and for a few blissful minutes it is all he knows. The body moans louder, as the temperature of its skin rises.</p><p>Vibrations echo though the legs he has to keep pressed down with the hands he still has placed on the hip, and left thigh. He won’t relinquish the power here. Not yet. Words moan out of the panting mouth, “M’close”. Harry pulls off. It would be such a waste after all if they were to come too early before Harry takes what he’s due.</p><p>“Don’t stop” comes the plead only moments later, but Harry shhss them.</p><p>Reaching towards the floor, Harry pulls out a condom and small tube of lube from his discarded jeans pockets. He doesn’t trust any of his encounters to be prepared. Hermione’s words flash through his mind. “Fuck whoever you want Harry, but don’t you dare come back with a bloody STD. Not after everything we went through. You fucking got it.” It’s the fiercest Harry’s seen her in years, not since she gave Malfoy a whack in the face and for some reason her words have stuck. It would be fucking ridiculous really if the saviour contracted an STD or god forbid HIV. Just because he was thinking with his lust and not his brain. Hands grab at his own waist, but Harry twists away. He dislikes being touched without permission. Instead, he leans back towards the body’s head, blue eyes blown wide, and still full of want.</p><p>Perfect.</p><p>Harry leans towards the very ear he whispered into before at the club, teasing the unsuspecting young wizard into wanting to discover more about what was under Harry’s black jeans and Gryffindor red shirt. It hadn’t taken much. It never did. Harry knew objectively he was well-toned and young enough to pull on both sides of the coin.</p><p>“Patience. Not much longer. You want to fill me up, right?” the eyes widen and the head nods frantically. If it wasn’t so pathetic, Harry might find it endearing how much they wanted to breach him. The only reason Harry allowed it was for the exchange he received, otherwise, he would go nowhere near them.</p><p>Harry settles over the recently departed area of the body, still feeling the remaining heat from his mouth work. He rubs the startingly red column until it’s upright once more, then rolls down the condom. He adds some lube to both the condom, and his first two fingers. Not allowing anyone else near his rim, he gently massages himself open. Practice apparently does make perfect, and in no time, Harry’s left open and panting, ready to feel the firm pressure stretch him out and burn.</p><p>It inches into him slowly, and he tips his head back, wanting to feel every stretch, push and ache. This is good. Harry’s had better, bigger but for tonight, for a random pick up, it’s enough. Something to fill up the space and help his escape. Get away from all that is out there in the world. Away from the weekly owls from Ron asking him to another Cannons game, or invitations to tea from Luna, or the worse, questions from Teddy about when he was going to visit again.</p><p>No, here nothing else exists. Only the euphoric rise of energy, as he goes up and down. Hands squeeze his hips, encouraging him to go faster. He acquiesces, ready to increase the speed. As much as he wants it to last forever, he can’t help getting caught up in the friction. In the beautiful heat of what’s happening between them, Harry remembers why he loves being here so much. This is the space he craves above everything else.</p><p>Harry settles his hand on the body’s shoulders and uses them to lever his movements harder. Flushed down, and then soaring to the sky. The blue, now darker, eyes stare at his throat, he can feel their careful watch. When his energy begins to fade, the body below takes over and the switch of power almost overwhelms Harry. If there’s a single second he detests about this bargain, it is now.</p><p>He feels his chest tighten as he’s impaled repeatedly in increasing speeds. He wants this, but at the same time he doesn’t. Caught between his desire to be floating in the chasm of space, and the disgust at being used as someone’s Friday night throwaway. The sticky, oozing black hole of hatred rises in his throat threatening to spill out, but then it’s replaced with the actual spillage of his cock, which apparently didn’t get the memo of self-hatred going on. Harry feels the brief moment of relief, where the only things floating around his brain is the pure wholesome bliss of release and then it’s snatched away as the body below doesn’t seem to give a fuck that Harry’s come.</p><p>They continue on regardless. Rutting unrelentingly into Harry’s now sore and overused rim. Harry clenches his eyes shut, taking short shallow breaths. He tells himself it will be over soon. It has to be. Finally the body stutters, feelings of fluids rushing, and a shaking breath are all Harry gets before he’s roughly removed, and he falls to the side.</p><p>“You can see yourself out”, the once bright eyes are now filled with indifference. To be fair it’s not like Harry wanted anything more than a brief encounter, but it stings anyway. Just another tick in the worthless column. Unable to summon the energy to cast a cleaning spell, Harry pulls on his clothes over his soiled body. Well, if the body doesn’t give a fuck, neither will Harry.</p><p>Instead, he grabs his jacket checking the pocket for his wand and steps out of the room. The rest of the apartment is as dreary and untidy as the previous room, but all the lights are off, and he can see the street lamps are shining bright, showing it’s not as late as it might have been. Harry can definitely get a few hours of sleep before he’s due for breakfast at Hermione and Ron’s. It’s one of the only appointments he bothers to keep. A debt to the pair he feels that can never be repaid.</p><p>Finally in the street, he makes his way to a nearby apparition spot he knows of and is then turning, vanishing from the spot before he can remember that fuck, he never got the body's name.</p><p>Damn. He swore this time at least he would do this. The nameless faces were piling up, threatening to become something more than casual hook-ups. Becoming something much closer to a want he couldn’t control. Something that might consume him from the inside out.</p><p>*</p><p>Feeling the wards to his workshop fall as he slips past them, Harry’s mind drifts back to the breakfast he just experienced with the Weasley’s. It’s still weird for Harry to think of Hermione as a Weasley but after 9 years together, 6 married and with two kids, it’s probably about time he got with the program.</p><p>He sets his bag down on the tidy desk. Harry hates things to be out of place. The more stuff he gained as his life went on, the more he felt burdened by it. If it was out, it was in the way. He’s not sure if it’s a trait leftover from his childhood filled with nothing but cleanliness. He remembers Petunia always saying, ‘A tidy home means a tidy viewpoint’, but it’s all bollocks to Harry. It doesn’t even make sense. Yet aren’t all the stories you learn in your youth the one that mess you up the most.</p><p>Breakfast had been crazy as usual. Rose was at the age where she seemed to question everything and anything. “Why, why, why?” was all she ever seemed to ask. To be fair, if there were three people in the world Harry had unending time for, it was Rose, Hugo, and Teddy. But even Harry’s patience was tested with Rose’s enthusiasm this morning to discover why Magic existed at all. The fact a five-year-old would be so adamant to know the answer to this proved to Harry that Rose was undoubtedly her Mother’s daughter. Rose’s inquisitiveness and determination rivalled only Hermione’s from their school days.</p><p>It made Harry think back to their early school days when they’d known so little about life and had solved most of their issues with the words Hermione found in the pages of old, musty books. Would Harry and Ron have been such a golden duo without their secret weapon? He doubts it. Hugo now two years old, a gurgling happy baby, had been as happy to see Harry as usual, if only life was as easy as that. See a person and feel happiness.</p><p>The whole outfit of the happy Weasley family was sometimes too much for even Harry, hence last night’s venture. The hangover potion he’d taken had done its work, but the soreness created hadn’t been as easy to ignore. He’d spent the majority of the morning eating pancakes and subtly shuffling from side to side trying to find the easiest spot to park his bum. Thankfully both parents were distracted with their young, and Harry had contributed a few bits about work and gotten away with that.</p><p>They cared, of course; they were his best friends, but life was different now. It was full of marriages, kids, jobs, and extended families. Harry wasn’t the heart of their world anymore. And a large part of Harry was thankful. They deserved all that. Yet he also missed someone noticing that he wasn’t okay all the time.</p><p>Glancing to the window, Harry looks for Dante, usually by now, the large grey owl would’ve delivered Harry’s morning post. Some orders, a bill or two, and a few adverts, which usually made up the small pile his owl would bring each day. No Dante yet though, so Harry opens the window and gets back to his morning routine. Looking along the bench, he checks on the three brooms which are mid-repair.</p><p>There’s a secondary bench on the narrow side of the room for creations, but right now, it’s empty. It makes Harry's heart drop a little at the sight. He gets fewer creation jobs than he does repairs. Not everyone has the 1000 galleons it takes to purchase one of Harry’s custom-built brooms it has turned out.</p><p>In fact, he only gets to build a few each year. Harry savours the moments when an order comes in for a custom broom. It’s the only space he can really flex his skills and talent. In the olden days before the Cleansweep company start mass building brooms. Broom making had been a craft only known to a few and respected by many. Though to be fair, true craftsmanship back then had been few and far between, with many focusing on style rather than performance.</p><p>For Harry, there was a certain pride in creating something that was not only styled beautifully but also building something that could pull off the perfect Wonski Feint. To craft something that allowed the rider to either skim the surface of great lakes or to reach the top of mountains with graceful ease. To reach for the sky and know it would be there to catch you as you fell. A broom for Harry was an extension of self, a part of any rider, and in particular for any Quidditch rider. Players were his most regular customers for custom brooms, but even those had to be at the top of their game to afford him, or a vault as deep as a giant’s cave.</p><p>Instead a lot of his regular work came from fixing brooms that had gone wrong or become damaged in games. In truth he was actually so good at this job, Firebolt kept him on retainer permanently to work on all the Firebolts and Iceshocks (their latest line) that came back for repair. All part of their initial sale guarantee, but they left it to Harry to bring them back to life, preferring to work on the newest models and keeping stock high. Harry didn’t mind. It kept his vault full, and he didn’t have to worry so much about dealing with too many customers. It was a necessary compromise to achieve a quiet life.</p><p>Popping the kettle on, Harry’s mind wanders again to the past, as it is want to do. Sometimes he feels like he always lives in the past, never able to run fast enough to catch up the future he lives in now. Tea in hand, Harry finally hears the tell-tale sign that Dante has arrived from picking up the mail.</p><p>Harry used to get it delivered to his old workshop, but that had meant people knew his address and they would randomly turn up pretending they had a broom to fix or they wanted to get one built. In reality, they just wanted to get a look at their precious saviour. Ron had suggested getting a P.O box and moving his workshop under a fidelius charm in the end.</p><p>Extreme, but Harry needed to match the extremes that his most persistent fans could reach when they really tried. He winces at the memory of when things had started to go missing from his workshop, first a clipper, then a mug, until finally his work overalls. He’d gotten Ron to check it out and discovered an over-eager fan had been breaking in, then masturbating on his workbench and then stealing his possessions as some kind of trophy. It still turned Harry’s stomach to this day. The price of fame, Luna had remarked.</p><p>Today’s mail wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. Harry had informed his Firebolt contact the day previously that he was nearly done with the three in his workshop, so a note informing him he would be receiving a new shipment in the following week was in the pile. In particular, a new Iceshock 5.0 that had taken to refusing to fly on even-numbered days of the month. Harry let out a short laugh. The ways brooms could mess up these days were endless.</p><p>Writing a quick reply to confirm the receipt of the shipment note and taking a moment to also arrange pick up from the set location on Friday for the current brooms on the racks Harry sets about to his work for the day.</p><p>He had two days to finish these brooms off. Mostly it had been twig work on two of the brooms but the third had been more interesting. A deep scar in its handle had meant it kept making the rider lose their sense of balance. Some wood essence with a sprinkle of ground gnome toenail clippings had soon fixed it, and all that was left to do was buff and re-layer of its protective charms. Something Harry could do in his sleep.</p><p>Easy really, well 8 years of experience easy, but it never felt difficult for Harry. Broom work was one of the areas he seemed to excel instinctively. Maybe it was because it didn’t really involve other beings, only really their remains. And he’d always taken naturally to brooms, ever since his first flight.</p><p>At lunch he faces the rest of the mail from the morning. There are two bills, which he files in the I’ll deal with later drawer affectionately known as the only touch when I have to drawer. Then Harry finds he’s left with one last piece of post, which is surprisingly heavy. The teal font with swirls and feathers sticking out the side though immediately give away the sender. There’s only one person who would send Harry something so ridiculous.</p><p>Sure enough, he opens the letter to a sparkling rainbow of glitter which forms the words <strong>“Congratulations, you have been invited!”</strong> in the air. Amused, Harry turns his attention to the cream coloured paper and discovers that yet another one of his friends has gotten their life together. The pit in his stomach drops a degree. Luna is getting married. He’s not surprised. Rolf and Luna have been dating for two years after all, but it still stings. Soon Harry will be just made of wounds.</p><p>Upon further investigation, Harry realises it’s an invitation to an engagement party a week on Saturday. The attire is written down as ‘colourful as the rainbow’. What does that even mean? Only Luna knows. But ah it does explain the glittery text, which is now fading away from above his head. Though of course not without leaving little sparkles all over his desk. Drat.</p><p>Harry doesn’t want to go. Mostly because it’ll just be another instance of where he has to stand around pretending to care what people he once knew are doing with their lives, or better yet, dodge questions about what he’s doing these days and if he’s seeing anyone. Those are the worst questions. The ones that pry into things they don’t have a damn right too. Hermione and Ron have gotten good over the years to divert the conversation any time Harry feels his hackles rising, but it’s still irritating enough to want to decline the offer.</p><p>The wedding is a definite, but Harry reckons he can get out of the party, an event or a conference maybe, but just as he’s writing out his reply in his mind, he catches a note at the bottom.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>“And Harry, don’t you dare think you can skip this one. Remember who introduced you to your number one client. I’m not afraid to blacklist you.”</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>The words stare at him out of the page, because compared to the elegant and swirled text above, these have clearly been written by hand and as an extra only for Harry’s eyes. Luna must be desperate to threaten him, especially about that client. The one who orders a broom each year, but Harry never knows who it’s for. Where specifications arrive, he builds and the broom leaves.</p><p>He’s never seen any of them on the quidditch field. Harry would be gutted to lose them as a client. So he gives in. It’s only one party after all.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry makes a new friend, and thoroughly enjoys his first night of the conference</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic is a super slow burn, I swear I did not mean it this to happen but I'm seriously enjoying all these dalliances of Harry's. It's nice to have a play. Draco will turn up soon, I promise.....guesses on when....</p><p>Kudos &amp; Comments are always appreciated. I love constructive criticism (though no need to mention my tenses...that ship has sailed!!!) </p><p>See you soon! (Updates every 10-14 days)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The weekend passes in a blur of alcohol, questionable dancing, and warm bodies. Two, maybe three this time. Harry doesn’t remember in so much detail of the mind, more in detail of the flesh. From the supple dark-skinned woman, who crunched her toes as he swirled his way around her body, to the lithe tanned male, with a smaller package, but who certainly knew what to do with it. All experiences of relief given freely in the moment but creating a hollowness in the aftermath. He doesn’t know but sometimes he feels like there could never be enough of those moments. Like he will be chasing after them forever, and never find the gold at the end of the leprechaun’s rainbow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monday arrives with a bump and attached is his weekly floo call with his assistant. The assistant he hired because Hermione told him to. Mostly to sort out the mess that had become his life at the time, but also eventually his business benefitted too. Samara dealt with the public, finances, and all the admin he didn’t want to do. Mostly so that Harry could deal with the brooms, the only part he really had any interest in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his personal life, she tended to the public invitations, calendar, and all his travel arrangements. All of it. He was still the saviour, however much he hated that word. There wasn’t much separation between his life and work it appeared, so it was easier to let her just get on with things. Plus Samara worked remotely, with a two-year-old at home and no partner, so she was never under his feet in the workshop.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hadn’t been easy for her to find reliable work, and when he’d put an ad in the prophet her letter had called out to him. No nonsense, straight to the point, family first. He liked that. It reminded him there were people out there who did love their children, in some ways having Samara around helped him feel that bit closer to his own mum. Maybe it was stupid, but it didn’t matter why she had come into his life, only that she was there. Instead of office visits, they had weekly floo chats and a schedule that updated directly from Samara’s desk to his own. A bit like the muggle internet cloud tech, Mr Weasley had surprisingly offered in explanation, the first time he’d mentioned the arrangement over the monthly family dinner at the Burrow.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry’s mind has wandered during Samara’s update, and when it returned to her words, the crash arrives in full, “...so your portkey leaves tomorrow for Berlin at 8 am sharp from the Blacknell bridge on the corner of Grand View Road. You can check-in immediately, and the Welcoming Drinks begin at 9.15 am. You have a double suite, with a view as requested. Are you packed yet? Or do you need me to send a list over?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry blinks at the floating head in his small brick fireplace. The green flames licking around the purple-headed woman with business-focused eyes. She raises an eyebrow at his confusion and sighs slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry did you forget about the conference?” her words are firm, but still laced with fondness. He nodded. In all truthfulness, this wasn’t the first time he’d forgotten something as big as this, but what was more ridiculous is that he was the one who’d requested she organise his itinerary just last week. Sometimes the outside world became irrelevant in the face of what was happening within his small world, so even when he pushed his head out to peek, he quickly withdrew his neck and forgot. Helpful at times, disastrous in others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hand clasped around his neck, he twists the knotted flesh from strained neck muscles and apologises. Samara ever the professional moves on as if nothing was amiss. She probably knew he would forget.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“…as you will be gone for over 2 days, I’ve informed the clients waiting about the slight delay. I’ll have Bernard pop by the workshop both evenings to check on the place and I moved your only appointment this week till Friday. Any questions?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a sharp cry in the background as Samara finishes. With apologetic eyes, she gestures a single finger to Harry. It must be little Hannah he guesses. Harry doesn’t mind the interruptions. In fact, it gives him a moment to sip from his rapidly cooling tea and gather his thoughts. Merlin last week had gone too fast. His mid-week session made it seem much shorter than usual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, why had he agreed with Luna that attending this conference would be a good thing for his business? Stepping away from the fire, Harry reaches one of his don’t touch piles, which Samara regularly nags him to send over with Dante, and roots through until the conference brochure slides out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all golds, and greens with the rotating words: </span>
  <strong>
    <span>“Join us at the 154th Annual Magical Wood Worker’s Conference, the only place to be for all that work with wood in the magical world.” </span>
  </strong>
  <span>He pauses, that is certainly the mouthful.</span>
  <strong>
    <span> “We welcome all wandmakers, broom workers, furniture builders and craftsman to discover all the latest discoveries and innovations in the Wood World. You won’t be disappointed. Only 179 galleons and 56 sickles for an all-expenses trip, incl. 2 days conference tickets.” </span>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <span>At the time Luna had been insistent he go, claiming he didn’t get out enough. Now he thinks he only agreed to get her off his back, plus the whiskey in his system probably made it an easier sell. The new bodies too were a draw, Foreigners were more tempting purely from the fact that didn’t recognise him as much. The British war with Voldemort hadn’t touched them as much. Godrick’s, he had a one-track mind when booze entered his system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gentle cough sounds from the still glowing fireplace, and Harry’s attention is returned to his assistant’s face. “Sorry Samara” he waves the pamphlet in her direction. Hoping to explain his distractions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent, so all set for tomorrow and this week? I’ll finalise the schedule shortly, I’ve popped in a muggle food order for you too, it’ll arrive when you return. I know you’ve been a bit addicted to the crumpets lately, so I’ve added two packs.” Harry goes bright red, and not the heat between two bodies kind. Rather the naughty kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He knows it shouldn’t matter what he eats and when, but still something deep inside him always feels the need to apologise for being greedy. For indulging himself more than he does on his little jaunts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry, do not feel guilt over bloody crumpets!” Samara obviously catches his mood and nips it in the bud. It helps in the short term, but he knows it’ll resurface later. The conference could be good though, his routine is a little too predictable and that pool of bodies does grow smaller each weekend. Maybe they’ll be something tasty to eat in Berlin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry’s flat is spacious, not Grimmauld place big, but roomy enough that it works for him. The years after the war spent in that lonely abandoned house hadn’t worked out well. Harry shudders to remember the feeling of darkness that lived in every corner of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A house that was left unloved for so long was hard to turn around for anyone and even harder for a non-black descendent to do so. Harry had tried for Sirius. The place his godfather grew up was special, but it was also a terrible place, where atrocities had taken place. The Black name was not only in words but in soul, Harry had begun to discover the longer he had stayed there. Living there touched your mind, and hadn’t Harry already suffered enough in his life. So eventually he’d give up the attempt. The guilt still ate away at him sometimes, but the new owners seemed happy enough. In fact, Theodore Nott had dealt with the trivialities of the sale. To this day Harry had no idea who’d purchased it. Just that it was gone, and thank Merlin, so was Kreacher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Harry lived in a 2 bed flat in Knightsbridge. Away from the magical district, but close enough to Hermione and Ron in Mayfair and the clubs, of course. It was strange to think of the duo living so close to London Central, but with their jobs still being in the Ministry it made sense for now. It wouldn’t last though, Harry knew it. Eventually, they would move to somewhere out of the city, like the other Weasley’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other than his workshop, his flat was his safe haven. Bodies were not permitted past the wards. Expensive hotel bills were the consequence of that, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to contaminate his home space with that part of his life. Home was full of old muggle movies, and school textbooks. It was the massive weaving, in Gryffindor red and gold, on the wall. It was worn-out jeans and golden scales. His kitchen stocked to the brim, with produce from the weekend market. This was the place he’d built up the blocks a life. Where he could control the story. Outside was where things didn’t adhere to him. The places he felt too vulnerable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later that evening, Harry ticks off the list Samara had sent over anyway, and he places the final few items in a small suitcase he’s taking with him. The muggle way of doing things was just easier sometimes. Trunks were only good when you had a train to store them away on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He checks one more time for the tickets, his itinerary parchment and most important of all, the bottle of easy-entry lube he never travelled without. This hadn’t strictly been on Samara’s list, but Harry knew without question that the item “toiletries &amp; additional shit” was code for whatever kinky stuff you want to take this time. It had made him smile. It was strange how so many in his life knew of his extracurricular activities, but didn’t comment, or rather didn’t comment anymore. That argument had long been left on the side, un-won by either side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a bag packed Harry sets it by the door and settles in for a nightcap with the latest Auror Higgins novel. More tired than he’d expected, Harry whispers the spell, which will make the words be read out loud. Sometimes when he does this, the voice sounds familiar and comforting, but he never quite figures out why before he heads off into the land of sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conference is loud and proud. If it were a pride celebration, it would be the São Paulo of Prides. It’s colourful, full of happy looking people and an air of excitement fills the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Checking in had been fairly easy, except the debacle with paying for some insurance or whatnot. Regardless Harry had dumped his bag in the room, unpacked enough in case of guests later, and headed down to the welcome reception all in the space of 20 minutes. The itinerary had mentioned food, and breakfast felt like hours ago. If Harry loved anything, it was a bit of breakfast and a hot cuppa. He finds the coffee stand abuzz with people, mostly clamouring over each to get the French pressed coffee that was serving itself, but for Harry, it was the rich aroma of loose tea leaf brewing in the centre of the golden hovering trolley that caught his attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flicked his wand, and the tea began to pour into one of the many tea services available. Milk with two sugars, because that was the way he liked it. Be darned with people who thought tea with milk was the greatest sin. Harry liked what he liked, so fucking what. Memories of Hogwarts and blonde pompous twats whirl around the thoughts until the two became inseparable. He’d long stop caring what others thought of his habits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tea is scalding hot, and it warms Harry, a good start. However now he’s no longer distracted by the shiny façade, Harry begins to feel the uncomfortableness of being out in public. He truly hates having to deal with people, especially without alcohol. With it, he’s the most confident person in the room, without it’s like he retreats to his Hogwarts days. A person he doesn’t want to remember. So naïve, so open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry lingers on the edges of the reception area drinking his tea and munching on a hot buttered scone, he’d pulled from the rotating toaster rack. Perfectly done and oozing with the butter he smeared across it. Honestly, even without the lure of flesh, the enticement of food probably could’ve sold him on the event. Plus he was also fascinated by that one talk regarding the new wood treatment centre in Sweden, and the unusual properties they had cultivated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, whilst hiding on the edges, no-one bothers him, and by the time the muggle style speaker system announces the commencement talk, he’s feeling a bit calmer. He can do this. Harry has only been to one conference before, so it’s all kind of new and overwhelming if he’s honest. His twenty-six years of life have not equipped him well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lights, smoke and way too much waving of wood around lead Harry through to the first-morning break, and the first attempt at socialising. For once, it would be nice if the confidence from his nights of debauchery would say a hello. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another cup of tea in hand, this time Earl Grey Blue as the small floating tag informs him, Harry attempts to join a circle of attendees and sips at his tea. They’re discussing the merits of forest-grown wood versus farmed wood, and surprisingly Harry finds himself nodding along. It’s not often he meets people who are fascinated as him about the growing properties’ of wood, except maybe Neville, but even he had become bored at Harry’s obsession. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, here he is surrounded by fellow enthusiasts. It’s nice hovering on the edge. Well, that is until one of the group notices him and welcomes him into the conversation by asking his opinion on the Alaskan Birch just released into the market. Harry feels blindsided by the relatively attractive man who’d spoken, unsure how someone could find it so easy to navigate the subtleties of social grace which are so foreign to Harry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“errr…errr” he stammers, feeling stupider by the second until finally, he spits out, “err…found it useful for temperature control on the new Ice model but its brittleness does not lend itself well for the brush.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahhhhh it appears we have another broom man with us” a friendly woman’s voice sounds from a few people across from him. He nods, and the group murmurs their approval at both his words and his job. “Frederick will be wanting to meet you then. He likes to get his hands on all the broom boys.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words come out friendly, but there’s a tone to understand that only a fool would miss. Harry’s body thrums in anticipation. It’s jarring against the reality of who he is in the dark vs his persona in the light. The conversation moves on quickly, filled with jabs and barbs against one another. This group are old work friends and don’t seem to be very taken with Harry, not outwardly anyway. It’s a welcome relief to be away from those who know him immediately, or think they do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bell for the first sessions rings and Harry finds himself, after announcing his destination, arm entwined with the very woman who’d spoken earlier. “Shall we, my dear?” the words come teasing and he allows himself to be pulled forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gathered around the stand, Harry reaches for his first drink of the day. It’s a special brew the company whose name he doesn’t know has made especially for the event. Niadh, his new best friend it seems, had informed him they were heading first to a friend’s stand for a drink, and then on to meet the rest at the cocktail party held by the conference. It had seemed easier not to argue at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Making their way through the numerous stands from wood makers, wand companies and broomstick business are from across the world, Harry had been amazed to see so many small clusters of wizard’s and witches gathered around them. All drinking, laughing and seemingly letting loose. Was this really something he could be a part of? It felt strange, and out of reach and Harry was way too sober to deal with these thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sessions had been interesting, but they're only so many hours Harry could listen to someone discuss the properties of wood or showcase a case study of them in use. The elusive Frederick was yet to appear. Niadh had informed him that he probably wouldn’t turn up until the following day. Always claiming some bullshit about coming only for the good stuff, which evidently was the sessions tomorrow and the giant ass party on the final evening. Tonight was just too quiet for the git. Harry didn’t know why but the stranger already had his hackles up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A refill for you there, young man?” Clément, the stand holder and friend of Niadh, asks. Leaning towards Harry with a knowing glint in his eye, and a half-empty whiskey bottle in the other. Clément being an older man, maybe in his sixties, isn’t right out an attractive prospect, but from the way his black robes are falling across his tight looking bum, Harry guesses what’s underneath is probably more appealing. Harry nods and allows the older to fill his glass. The first move in the subtle dance of flirtation. Harry wonders how long it will take for the man to reveal his cards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes, it turns out, “Did you know when I was young, I wanted to be a zoologist?” the smirking man states. Harry hums in a way that encourages the man to continue. He’s intrigued he’ll give him that. “Ahh yes, I wanted to study Nifflers to be exact”. Harry processes the words, as he feels the whiskey slide down his throat, and acknowledges what exactly this man is offering with a small smile. In the muggle world, they would call him a silver fox. In the magical world, a Niffler keeper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a very kind or subtle term, but some people lusting after the beauty of youth was inevitable. And as sure as that, there would always be some who were after the galleons that were stored in the lonely vaults of those people. To be fair, it was a clear exchange, and even Harry had been partial to such a transaction a few times. Sometimes being the Niffler, others the Niffler keeper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry leans in afraid his new friend may be partial to a bit of eavesdropping. “Used to study them myself for a time,” he starts, stopping for a second to contemplate his words, was this appropriate? He didn’t want to jeopardize his new friendship. Did it matter? No-one else cared, why did he, he continues, “But got bored. Much prefer exploring a dragon’s fire.” On the spot, it’s not exactly creative, but he figures it will do to get his message across. Clément straightens slightly as the sudden change of tempo, slightly surprised at Harry’s words. Most likely, Clément didn’t get counteroffers that involved a younger aggressor. Fire lived in Harry’s veins. It just didn’t reveal itself unless Harry allowed it to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are a few minutes where Harry thinks his offer has been declined, many have been intimidated by Harry’s hidden persona. However, surprisingly enough, a card is soon slipped his way as he and his Niadh make their way onto the next venue. When Harry takes a moment to check it, he sees a time and a room number. Oh how fun, he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry knocks solidly and hears motion behind the wooden hotel door. A bit of shuffling and the door opens revealing a just showered Clément, with only a towel gracing his hips. Harry is finally able to confirm his suspicions. Yes, that’ll do nicely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mentally he pats himself on the shoulder and steps into the room without invitation. Clément startles but allows Harry to pass by and even extends his left arm in a flourish as if guiding the way for Harry. The room is similar to the set up of Harry’s own, but Clément has an additional lounge area, accommodating two black leather chairs and a small glass table. Very artsy. This must be what being a sponsor gets you. Harry settles himself in the chair facing the window and looks expectantly towards the fox. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I drink Whiskey, neat if you don’t mind?” Harry states. The mini-fridge door is pulled open behind him, and the sound of clinking glasses reverberates through the room. It’s a soothing sound to Harry’s already fuzzy mind. Niadh was certainly an excellent drinking partner. A cool glass is pressed into Harry’s open palm, and the first sip is glorious settling him unlike anything else can. He crosses his legs and leans back into the soft furnishings, and once more his eyes return to devouring the man in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More sips, as he watches Clément. The man is graceful, a lifetime learnt skill, he notes. Youth was full of fumbles, and unsureness. No, this man did not rush. He did not falter. It reminded Harry of something. That confidence was familiar, and oh so appealing. Blood rushes to his groin at the thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patience was a game, and Harry excelled at playing it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few more minutes of quiet observation, Harry finally places his tumbler down on the table. The slight ping bringing Clément’s attention towards him. Harry smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Although this drink is whetting my appetite well, I was rather hoping for some more substantial tonight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clément gulps, and Harry rises in his own graceful manner. He really isn’t the awkward boy he once was. He steps towards Clément who has paused by the bed, now clothed in a silk gown and places his hands on the firm chest. Enjoying the feel of it. Harry wants to lick it but restrains his urges. As confident as Clément had seemed downstairs, it did not do well to assume he would be as self-assured in the moment. However, Clément seems as cheek as ever, even returning Harry’s smirk with his own matching one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why how rude of me? We can’t have you starving, now can we?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No we can’t” Harry replies, and lewdly adds, “Will you let a poor hungry ex-Niffler have a little taste?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his words, Harry feels the older man’s body swell to attention, clearly interested in the suggestive statements coming out of Harry’s mouth. Merlin was this all it took to get the man going. It was getting too easy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your first course is served” Clément fires back. Harry fights the urge to gag slightly, reminding himself this is supposed to be a bit of fun. Running his hands down the body, Harry pushes aside the silk robe, and the loose tie comes undone. Once more the tanned, deliciously firm body is exposed for the taking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry can already taste it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the way down he flicks out his tongue, aching to capture some of the taste of flesh, before arriving at his destination. It catches a nipple, and Clément flinches in sensitivity. Good to know, but Harry doesn’t pause in his travels and continues on down. Finally sinking to his knees, Harry’s hands trail after his body, taking their time to explore each inch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Savouring the unwrapping of this gift, so to speak, Harry is delighted to discover Clément has forgone putting on underwear. What a well-behaved body. Then at last his attention is on his meal. Hot, fresh and filled, Harry takes it with fervour. Swallowing down whole, testing the man before him regarding his stamina, his reactions will tell Harry all he needs to know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The move surprises the man, but he does not buck up like an inexperienced virgin, instead he simple absorbs the heat and stands strong. Harry grins around the warmth, and removes himself slowly, flicking his tongue as he goes. Blissful. This is him in his true element. A world away from his workshop. Similar to the control he feels when bending the wood, and sculpting the broom, but here the reactions are so visceral, they make him feel alive and it’s all because of him and his skilful tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry can’t remember when he realised his desire to take control, was accompanied by a need to please and reach ecstasy together. Not long out of Hogwarts, post dropping out of the Auror’s he thinks, taking the length in once again, slower this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it was the time, he got so drunk, and that older wizard took him into the club bathrooms. Forcing him on his knees and slotting themselves into Harry’s half-opened mouth. Pulsating in and out, with little to no regard for Harry. At first, paralyzing, but then he’d felt his own mass come to life. Filling and pushing against his tight jeans. Harry had surged forward then, and enthusiastically licked and sucked to the amusement of the wizard, but he’d let Harry go for it. And when he’d come all over Harry’s face. The leaving comment “What a good boy you are harry” had set his mind on fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the same vein, Harry eats Clément alive. The man begins to shudder, as he reaches his own peak. Harry swallows down deep, and use his hand to twist at the top, feeling the body being to tremble and words of “Eat your dinner boy, eat it all” fall out of Clément’s mouth. Harry pulls off, and sits back, wiping his mouth with his still sleeved arm. Clément for a moment looks lost at sea, as if all his dreams have come tumbling down, but soon recovers and firmly pulls Harry up and onto the bed. Leering over Harry, he drawls out “Time for me to eat”. Harry wants to laugh out loud at the silly statement, but soon the feeling of wetness on his own heat is far too distracting. A body that can give as good it gets. He hums in appreciation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry’s jeans are settled just below his hips, a slither of space exposed. Putting him on display and it appears Clément is as hungry as Harry, milking the appendage for all it’s worth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A simmering heat begins to build in Harry’s body. Salazar, this man certainly knows how to eat his meal. Harry feels his body buck up in want, the tendrils of lust scattering over his brain. The fuzziness of the alcohol flaming off into a fogginess of desire. A firm lick has Harry reaching for Clément’s head and pulsating slowly into the gentleman’s mouth. Clément allows the power switch, and Harry relishes the control. He pushes in and out, not quite unlike how the body last week did to him. It surprises Harry how much he likes this both ways. Being both the giver and the receiver of such wetness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He uses the mouth given freely for a few more strokes until he hits a wall of frustration and calms himself down. Pulling out, Harry strokes his hand down Clément’s face. The man is breathing heavily now, a little unsure as to what next. Harry is surprising to many of his lovers, he knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time for the main course,” Harry asks. Clément gives his approval but looks unsure. Harry’s words from earlier come to mind, he’d been keen for fire, but now Harry just wants to take, take, take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you feel about being the course? he enquires carefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fragility of manhood often comes into question here. As predicted Clément shuffles slightly, and Harry brushes a reassuring hand across his chest, making sure to catch the nipple it goes. Clément shudders, and his eyes roll back marginally but enough for Harry to notice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like me to eat you up Clément?” he pushes further, sensing his prey is succumbing to the bait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He places his other hand onto the bare chest and begins to rubs the other nipple as well. Clément physically shakes with need and dips his head in assent. It’s all Harry needs before he’s flipping the handsome body onto its back and ravages kisses all across the neck, down to the clavicle and on the now pink and sensitive nipples. Clément moans beneath him, and Harry focuses on the rise of the chest, and the quake as it settles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pure unrestrained want courses through Harry’s body. The desire to pillage and plunder takes over, with no space left for thought or feeling. Harry pulls back, ripping his own shirt off and pushing down his jeans. His left-hand reaches for his own hardness, massaging up and down, summoning lube and a condom from his jean pocket with an unnecessary display of wandless magic. Clément grows harder at the action. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry smirks, it never fails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Returning to his position over the man, Harry slicks up his fingers and get to work curling out the whimpers and sounds he daydreams about. Pressing in firmly he finds little resistance. The cry comes out clear once he finds the spot, drumming it over and over again, Clément screams in blissful agony. Thank merlin for automatic silencing charms on hotel rooms. Then just as Clément sets to jump off the cliff, Harry pulls back his attack, resuming his war on Clément’s nipples. Enjoying each scream coming out of Clément’s mouth, and each twist of his body as he tries to get away from the unrelenting sensations Harry is giving him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now further away from his edge, Harry places his stack against the relaxed hole and pushes the spike in. Slower than his fingers, Harry wants Clément to beg for the fullness. Harry swirls his hips around, teasing the sensitive area. Inside he struggles to hold back the beast, but on the outside, he is calm as ever. Clément gyrates his hips forward trying to gain more friction inside, but Harry places a firm hand down, keeping the man flat on his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, now… Clément, we shouldn’t be greedy, should we….I haven’t had my fill yet” Harry goads the man, whose body is glistening in sweat. “Eager Niffler Keepers don’t get their dessert if the Niffler goes hungry, do they?” Harry glides his slicked-up hand around the forgotten heat between them. Clément pants, and shakes his head. Afraid to speak it seems, but that won’t do. Harry wants to hear how much he wants Harry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chides softly, “Speak up Clément…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shouldn’t….I shouldn’t be greedy….” The words come with difficulty. Clément unable to focus, driven mad by the constant contact of his rim, and Harry’s fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ask nicely then Niffler Keeper” Harry demands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Done with the games, finally keen to chase after his own desires. “Please Niffler, eat me alive”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry smiles and pets the man below him in an oddly soft manner for the moment. “Very well, as you wish”. The tip goes in and seeks its destination without warning. It is firm and hard, sending pulsating shockwaves through the both of them. Then out, and back in. Motion creating fire, as the two skins brush up against each other’s sensitivity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harder, stronger it grows. Harry losing himself in the pleasure. The feeling of flight, but it’s not enough. He wants to make this so Clément will never remember the Niffler, who isn’t a Niffler. Harry pulls back and turns his body over, clasping Clément’s hips once more, hiking them skyward. The wet-looking hole rising to meet Harry once more. He re-enters but this time, a loud cry accompanies the thrust. The hunger takes over, and he swallows the body over and over again. Savouring every mouthful until he can hold it in no more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clément convulses as he reaches his own peak, Harry in return finding a frenzy flood his groin, his body and into his chest. The feeling wrapping around his heart and mind, granting him a glimmer of what is to feel once more. Then it is blinding, and his hips stutter losing power by the stroke. Then he is releasing into the condom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry massages the limpness belonging to the sensitive man below, enjoying the whine, as Clément tries to rejects his touches. Harry turns the man over, and once more kisses his chest. Using his hands to play with the bright red nipples. Clément shrieks and Harry takes the flaccid length into his mouth, lapping up the milky residue. He licks it all until it’s clean but casts a cleaning spell regardless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dessert tastes perfect,” Harry says cheekily, as he climbs up beside the once more panting Clément. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it over?” Clément asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs and leans back against the headboard. “Yes, it’s over…unless you’re hungry for seconds…” Harry jokes but the man shakes his head firmly. Not many have quite the same appetite as he does. They sit in silence for a few minutes. It’s comfortable, and Harry enjoys the afterglow. A surge of confidence brimming in his veins. It’s delightful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, however, he feels the events of the day catch up to him and pulls himself out of bed. Re-dressing he glances at the man still worn out in the bed, sheets messily laying around his still naked body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, my young friend are dangerous” Clément quips in a guarded friendly manner. Harry smirks, and lets out a short snicker. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. Checking for his wand, Harry takes the last sip of his whiskey and heads for the door. He’s not particularly fond of goodbyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will I see you at the conference tomorrow?” Clément asks, but Harry hears the real question. Harry doesn’t often go twice with the same body if he can help it. Only special friends are allowed. Lightly he responds, “I doubt it. It’s a big conference after all. Thank you for your charming company this evening though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clément looks sad at the loss for a moment but then recovers pulling himself up. After all, he is not young, nor naïve. He understands Harry’s intentions. Clément grabs his previously discarded silk robe, slides in and walks the few steps towards Harry’s lingering presence by the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try not to break too many hearts” the man whispers, kissing Harry on the cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry smiles at the thought, remembering how many times his heart has been broken. “Only if they really deserve it”, he jokes back and leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him. A tempus reveals the time to be 1.14am. Excellent, plenty of time before he has to meet Niadh and the others for a spot of breakfast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This conference is turning out to be a lot more fun than he expected it to be. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi all!</p><p>Back with a new chapter. Thank you for your patience. This is the kind of project I can only tap into when I have the energy to do so. I hope you enjoy Harry's journey, and yay for a special character finally arriving!!! :D</p><p>Please be aware there is a distressing scene for Harry at the end of this chapter though. I will put a trigger warning, when it begins then you can just skip to the end for a short summary. </p><p>Let me know if you're enjoying this!!! </p><p>Stay healthy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Six hours later Harry arrives in the once again redecorated welcoming hall. This time set up with an even more impressive breakfast buffet. He can tell it’s been heavily influenced by the continental muggle community. On clear glass plates, there is a selection of meats, cheeses, and bread rolls with about 100 different varieties of fruity themed spreads.</p><p>It reminded him of Hogwarts in a way. The way you could have a little bit of everything, and anything. Harry had loved the days when the elves were adventurous when they would prepare dishes from all across the world. In fact, sadly it was one of the only ways Harry had ever been able to experience any other culture. The wizarding world could be very insular at times.</p><p>After the war, Harry had done his fair bit of travelling the world. Not only to other Wizarding communities but to muggle ones too, where he could escape and be free. It was when his dalliances with the bodies first started. So many fresh, hungry bodies ready to be devoured. Faceless and nameless. The perfect way to get lost for a while, or perhaps even longer.</p><p>Plate heavy with delicious-looking food, Harry hears his stomach rumble. He’s already taken a hangover potion, so his head feels clear, but the lack of food last night is definitely catching up to him. And by the time he locates his new friends, he’s also procured his much-needed cup of steaming Darjeeling tea. He nods to the table as he sits down next to Niadh, who immediately starts to interrogate him about last night.</p><p>Harry’s not sure how she knows but gets the impression Clement may have loosened his lips the more she interrogates. He’s not particularly upset, though Harry normally prefers to keep his private life private. Niadh, however, doesn’t seem overly judgemental, rather she seems more intrigued and just a little bit in awe. It’s a feeling Harry’s not used to. Hermione and Ron have been so against it, even when they don’t say anything. He knows deep down they hate it. Especially Hermione, who just wants him to be happy. Harry is so far past trying to explain to her that happiness isn’t as easy for him as it’s been for them. Finding your soulmate at the age of 11 just didn’t happen to everyone.</p><p>Thankfully Niadh doesn’t pry too far, she goes for light teasing and subtle jokes, which make Harry smile. He plays along and enjoys the breakfast. Feeling more at home here than he has in a long while.</p><p>Mid bite of his carefully constructed meat and cheese toasted sandwich, Harry’s ears prick to a new conversation taking place across the round table. If he remembers correctly, it’s the same attractive man from yesterday but now has a name, Damien Jorkin. He’s talking quietly to a larger looking woman, broad shoulders with the wildest hair when she throws her head back giggling. Harry wonders what lies beneath her smile, as he sees her eyes flick to him more than once, followed by a smirk which sets Harry’s nerves aflame. She knows things, he instantly realises.</p><p>Niadh confirms her to be a one Gwendolyn Hern, aka conference gossip queen. Every group has one, Harry had mistakenly thought Niadh to be theirs, but thinking back, Niadh had been too open and honest. Gossips tended to thrive on keeping their cards close to their chest. He would need to be cautious around Gwendolyn if he wanted to stay fairly under the radar. Flashes flicker in his mind, making his heart lurch. Unkind laughter, embarrassment, and hurt remind him to keep his walls firm. Bodies protect, hearts shatter.</p><p>“Has anyone seen Frederick yet?” the woman in Harry’s thought asks the table, evidently done with her private gossiping and now open to pulling information in from the crowd.</p><p>The few scattered member of the group still at the table shake their head, but with amused smiles on their collective faces. Harry feels like he’s missing an inside joke. He’s hesitant to ask about it though. Does he want to know anything more about this mysterious stranger? The one that sets tongues wagging just by mere mention of his name. </p><p>Surprisingly, it’s Niadh who responds, “Oh you know Frederick, he won’t be here until something captures his attention, and then it will be drinks all night.”</p><p>Gwendolyn nods in agreement, gathers herself to move on and bids them adieu. Sensing the change in the air, Harry tilts his head to look the permeant tempus that hangs over the breakfast space, it reads 9.04 and then ticks over to the 5. Right on cue, the sound system kicks in announcing the first sessions will begin in 10 minutes.</p><p>Right, he’s here to learn. Time to get a move on. He heads for his first session of the day. Unfortunately, Niadh’s track for the day doesn’t coincide with his again and a small part of Harry mourns the unexpected loss. He’s been enjoying her company, but as a wandmaker, her specialities go in different directions. The second day, he has learnt, is always the more specific talks regarding the attendee's interests. Harry has a full day of broom focused talks, and the one he’s most looking forward to is on this afternoon. It’s about the history of the Firebolt and how it changed the game for the broom industry. It feels nostalgic and he wonders if there is much he doesn’t already know about the broom. His schoolboy heart hopes so.</p><p>These days, Harry doesn’t fly very often. Sometimes he does at the Burrow with the boys, but outside of that, flying just doesn’t feel the same anymore. Flying by himself feels even more lonely. There was a time when the rush of zooming through the air was the only thing he could think about. Where chasing for that small golden ball, beating out his competitors and knowing he was the best at something because he worked at it, was the best part of his day. To be challenged and considered real competition. That was what it meant to be alive. Wind, heat,  sweat, a flash of blonde, and a thrumming vibrancy. It all crashed into one euphoric feeling in Harry’s memories. Nothing could ever compare, so why bother getting back on the broom. No instead. He’d prefer to stay on the ground, working on the brooms themselves. Refining and perfecting them.</p><p>The tempus clock ticks fast, and before Harry knows it, he’s sat in the lecture hall waiting for the Firebolt talk to begin. Perusing the information on the conference programme, he reads that not only is the current CEO of the Firebolt Company attending, but also the original designer of the broom, Randolph Spudmore, who retired over 5 years ago. A person Harry has wanted to meet forever, even since that broom had fallen onto his breakfast table all those years ago.</p><p>But the designer was elusive, even for the saviour to get five minutes with. In Harry’s mind, he thanks the heavens for actually coming. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d made a plan and backed out at the last minute. Though with age, he finds it a bit easier to get over the initial fears. And this trip has been rewarding enough to make him want more.</p><p>Scanning the crowd, which is steadily filling up the room. Harry is surprised how many people he recognises, even if he doesn’t know the people personally, he does recognise their faces from the periodicals, and industry journals he reads. As a small community, it’s essential to keep up to date with the goings-on. You never know who’s going to develop a new innovative cushioning charm or figure out a way to get a better tail shape.</p><p>There had been so many interesting developments in recent years, and some very funny ones. Harry himself had created one or two well-accepted tune-up charms, but he’d published them under a fake name. More fame was the last thing he wanted. Harry would always prefer keeping himself to himself, but then his eye catches on something, which he can’t look past.</p><p>It’s the back of ahead, but the soft blonde hair framing it from behind look so familiar, in a way which causes Harry’s heat to glow slightly. From the back, Harry can only see that the locks come down past their ears, and they look silky as anything. He wonders what it would be like to run his hands through it. The shoulders are straight, and he can tell by the way the body is turned slightly, that the man’s legs are crossed.</p><p>Harry crawls through his memory, trying to see if this body matches any of those, he has shared time with. It doesn’t fit any that he can remember, but that doesn’t always mean everything.</p><p>He puzzles over it for a few minutes, repetitively glancing over, but the body doesn’t turn his head, and frustratingly doesn’t speak to anyone. Attention firmly on the podium, which is set up on the small, magically constructed stage at the front. Three plum seats sat empty, waiting for the panel to arrive. Harry glances that way too and sees elves pop in and out every few seconds with a new item to place down, from water jugs to microphones.</p><p>Soon enough however the special guest arrives, and Harry’s attention is pulled away from the stranger. It doesn’t matter, he can follow up after. He’s certain his mind won’t let him forget to.</p><p>“Welcome all. We’re delighted today to welcome, Randolph Spudmore, whose has graciously joined us from semi-retirement.” There’s a round of wild applause as the host, Benjamin Wreter, begins to introduce the small panel of speakers. Harry’s eye unconsciously drifts back to the blonde and sees they’re clapping as hard as anyone.</p><p>“We also are delighted to welcome the CEO of Firebolt Inc, designer of the Iceshock, Killian Getyung.” The room is so loud, it would be impossible to create more noise. It’s almost like being at one of those muggle music concerts; Seamus has dragged him to over the years. Harry can’t remember the name of the band exactly.</p><p>Microphones properly clipped on, glasses full and preparatory sips taken, the panel begins officially. Harry loses himself.</p><p>“….so what made you decide to make the industry-changing decision to use goblin ironwork?” Benjamin asks coyly.</p><p>Randolph has memorably always resisted answering this question, quoting privacy issues. Whispers have flooded the world of broom-making for years over this very topic. Goblins did not like giving away their secrets, and to even know how the iron pieces would work on a broom design was fairly scandalous. Never mind him to be able to create a long-term working relationship with them.</p><p>“…I won’t go into much detail.” the room sighs, but still no-one says anything, too keen to get any slice of gossip.</p><p>“…a long time ago a friend of mine needed some help, which I provided with no intention to receive anything in return. They knew of my love of flying, and to make our life debt equal out, they offered up the information to create a better flying experience. I won’t share the details, so please Benjamin don’t push further, but I’m happy to say, we are still friends to this day, and I feel like I could never repay the debt I now carry.”</p><p>Harry blinks. Searching deeper under the words which have spilt from Randolph’s mouth. A friend of his. Randolph was friends with a Goblin. It was almost unheard of.</p><p>Goblins did not make friends. They kept to themselves and guarded their secrets to the grave. It was incredible to hear that such loyalty could exist across species. Dobby was someone like to Harry. A friend he trusted with his life. Tendrils of grief bristle around their deeply buried darkness but it’s not the time to dwell on the past. It should stay where it belongs.</p><p>“…The Firebolt changed history, and even today we can still feel its effects on the industry as a whole. Killian, how would you describe the Firebolts influence on the development of the Iceshock?”</p><p>The panel goes on, and Harry can’t tear his eyes away from it all. He’s absolutely entranced. By the history, the knowledge, the passion, and the love that exists in this room. All these people love broom-making as much as he does. It’s intoxicating in some ways. To be so in the moment and think of nothing else. All that exists, is wood, magic, and flying. He breaths in deep, and then as always, it’s over.</p><p>The panel is saying their thanks. No time for any questions, which makes Harry’s heart sink. He’d been hoping to ask Randolph a question. And then the room starts to flood out. Perhaps he might be able to use his work connections to get a moment with him in the future. He’s surprised he’s never thought of it before.</p><p>End of day two means drinks, and dancing. No wonder people don’t want to stick around. Stuck in his hurricane of thoughts though means Harry doesn’t notice the blonde slip out. He curses. Merlin, he’s missed his only chance to see their face. He hopes he might catch them later, if only as a warm body for tonight. He can’t deny the pull. Drinks are at a different booth tonight, which relaxes Harry. It’s not that he would be uncomfortable around Clement, but it might make it awkward when he played for someone else. More than once had that led to a troublesome situation.</p><p>Approaching the now-familiar circle of people, Harry realises they’re all facing the same direction. But he can’t quite see what or who has caught their attention so. It’s evident, however, that it is rather hypnotizing. Glasses in hand are being ignored, and crudités halfway to mouths. Harry is intrigued.</p><p>Silently he steps forward, and slides into the space he assumes Niadh has left for him. It takes him a few seconds to adjust his body to be relaxed in the slightly cramped space he is now taking up, and only then does he look up into the astonished eyes of the very blonde he couldn’t take his eyes off before.</p><p>But this time he can see the man for all his glory, and oh god Harry is dazed. He can hardly process this turn of events. A tumble of emotions threaten to rise and fall out of his chest, but before anything can happen, Niadh dutifully introduces the stranger to Harry.</p><p>“Harry, you haven’t met Frederick, have you? We’ve been telling him all about you.” She drawls, evidently noticing Harry’s surprise but not really understanding it.</p><p>What she doesn’t realise is she has just introduced Harry to someone he knows oh so well. Someone he hasn’t seen in years. Someone who looks really fucking good. Someone who lights fires up in his soul, anger, hatred, yearning, greed, and most of all burning desire.</p><p>And Draco Malfoy stares right back.</p><p>-</p><p>A few moments of silence leak into tens of seconds of awkwardness. Harry’s brain is struggling to piece together coherent thoughts, never mind sentences. Thankfully, he’s saved from the eventuality of embarrassing himself by another in the group.</p><p>“Made another speechless, eh Frederick.”</p><p>The group laughs lightly, whilst Niadh throws a questioning look his way. The impulse to run is strong, yet it’s the blonde man whose eyes haven’t left his that truly save him in the end.</p><p>“Ahh, that does seem to happen. Harry, is it? Can I get you a drink?” Frederick says with Malfoy’s mouth and lush pink lips. Good god, why does his mind always go there?</p><p>This is Draco fucking Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake. Not just some body to lust over. Yet at the same time, Harry can feel the inferno ignite. Something half-forgotten, and only remembered in the face of its ignition point. “What can I get you?” Malfoy asks in a collected manner, and it pisses Harry off a bit. How can he be so calm about this?</p><p>Yet this is the Malfoy Harry has always known, able to command a room with a single word. His magnetic power, which does not need any spell work.</p><p>“A whiskey, neat”, Harry gets out, though it’s not strong or decisive as it can be. Of all the people to run into, why did it have to Malfoy?</p><p>“Certainly”</p><p>Malfoy captures the temporary bars servers with a soft signal of his elegant hand, and orders Harry’s drink, then adds something else which Harry doesn’t catch. What does Malfoy drink these days anyway he thinks. It’s not like in their school days they were ever given the chance to grab a drink. Without Voldemort in their lives, would they have ever found one?</p><p>“So Harry,” Malfoy, not Frederick, starts with a slow drawl, lengthening out the ry of his name. Almost enjoying the sound of it on his tongue. Fuck. “Yes,” he responds effortlessly to the words, without conscious thought, and even leans a little towards the blonde. “As you may be aware, our friends here aren’t privileged to certain parts of information about my past, and I would rather it stayed that way. I, however, appreciate you may be less comfortable with that. It would be…” Malfoy pauses. The words seemingly difficult to get out. “I would be grateful if we could keep the truth between ourselves, and I, of course, can extend the same courtesy towards yourself and your illustrious path, if you so wish.” Malfoy finishes his speech and takes a gentle sip of the pink looking cocktail that arrived during.</p><p>Fuck. Who the hell is this person? Calm? Considerate? Kind? It’s like looking at a stranger. Harry feels the urge to grab the man in front of him and shake him until the real Draco Malfoy comes out, but he can’t.</p><p>Some part of him understands. The need to get away from the past. To become someone new. Someone people don’t know. But this feels like so far from the previous Malfoy. Like he didn’t even exist, and it sits weirdly in Harry’s soul.</p><p>In response to the internal confusion, Harry throws back the whiskey in one and then grimaces instantly. Idiot. He glances into Malfoy’s eyes searching for the person he once knew, but only sees an earnestness that frightens him. Has everything changed so much since he retreated from the world? Is the world he can expect to come back to one day. Where nothing is recognisable?</p><p>“Of course Frederick. Thank you for the drink” Harry has nothing else. Instead, he signals for another drink. Alcohol is the only way he will get through whatever this is. Weirdly though, he thinks he can do it for Malfoy. After all, there is too much history between them now. They’ve both suffered enough for a thousand lifetimes. Malfoy’s paid his dues. He won’t continue to make him earn his keep.</p><p>A curious eyeball follows him as he down half of his new drink, yet Malfoy does nothing but expresses his thanks and indicates that they should return to the group. Harry agrees for now. They can’t talk here, but shit, he has so many questions, This is not the right time, or maybe ever. Why bother open pandora’s box? It didn’t work out well for Pandora, did it?</p><p>Niadh grabs his arm on his return to the circle, which has split off into a few smaller groups as discussions turned to specific talks from the day, and pulls him to the side hissing, “What the hell Harry?” His mind raced to find a suitable answer, “oh I thought he was someone I once knew. Turns out he’s someone completely different. Why was it super obvious?” Harry jokes to deflect, the truth is always easier when lying. As close as possible, without revealing all. He should know. Her response, “oh only as obvious as a muggle trying to do magic.”</p><p>Harry hums, reluctant to talk more about the mysterious Frederick with Niadh, afraid he might slip up, or worse do something stupid about with his thoughts. “It’s such as shame though. I really thought you were his type.” His eyebrows raise at Niadh’s words.</p><p>“His type?” Harry questions carefully, stirring his drink, even though whiskey does not need it. “Yes, usually he finds the most handsome man at the conference and takes him to his room to do goodness knows what. It’s pretty legendary around here really. Nobody ever complains in the morning. Suitors even vie to get his attention to be the chosen one, so to speak”</p><p>Harry almost spits out the whiskey he’s just sipped and forces out in disbelief “…the Chosen One…”</p><p>What the fuck.</p><p>“oh he hates that term, but someone coin it a conference or two ago, and it’s stuck”</p><p>Oh, Harry doesn’t know how to feel about that. Well, his head doesn’t. His lower body parts haven’t quite got the memo today though, as he feels the burning sensation increase. He lifts his head once more to look at the familiar stranger. </p><p>Objectively Malfoy looks really fucking good. Post-Hogwarts life is treating him well, whatever he’s been doing. Of course, he’s still got that Merlin-awful cockiness about him, but it feels different now. Now it comes from a confidence in himself. Like Malfoy knows he’s really fuckable, and that he could get anyone he wanted. It’s captivating.</p><p>His non-grease hair is also totally working for him. Falling down by his eyes, Harry watches as he flicks his head slightly, which makes his hair shake and his eyes sparkle.</p><p>Salazar’s.</p><p>Is he really fucking doing this? Is he really lusting after Malfoy?</p><p>His eyes wander further down, and he notices the robes Malfoy wears are understated in their splendour. Expertly made to show his body, without being slick to it. Similar to Clément’s, but these are robes designed for a younger man, who doesn’t have to hide. Malfoy isn’t skinny, but neither is he robust. Almost the perfect in-between. Harry can only wonder what it would feel like to have those thighs wrapped around his torso, squeezing tight.</p><p>God, it makes him ache, and slightly bead up. The whole effect of Malfoy’s everything sends him into another tailspin, so he orders another drink and another. It’s probably a bit excessive, considering he hasn’t eaten again, but fuck does he know what to do with all these fucking emotions washing over him. This is not what he came here.</p><p>It was supposed to be just faceless bodies he carved his own mark into, but here he is, lusting after the one person he never thought he would be.</p><p>The more his mind becomes fuzzy, the more he accepts his deep desire for Frederick. Fuck he means Malfoy. The way the blonde man tips his head back in laughter, the way his hand curls around the man next to him’s waist. It drives Harry a bit insane.</p><p>The group moves onto the conference party held in a club a few streets over. The conference has set up portkeys to transport them over but Harry barely remembers the swirling sensation, holding on to Niadh to keep his balance mostly. Then he has another drink in hand and is dancing the night away. At some point, some white powder makes an appearance, he doesn’t decline. Anything to distract from the radiating fire that burns him from across the floor.</p><p>Every time Harry looks up, he feels the burning flash of eyes and then nothing. It’s almost as if Malfoy is avoiding looking into his eyes.</p><p>Which Harry thinks isn’t fair. None of this seems fair. Why does he have to experience anything towards Malfoy? Why can’t people just leave him in peace? Why does Draco have to fucking ruin this too?</p><p>Harry’s mind flashes in and out of the darkness. It’s a bit unnerving really but the urge to confront Malfoy only grows. So he gathers his courage and marches overdetermined to say something but when he arrives, Malfoy looks so happy. He looks blissful, and Harry just wants some of that. So instead of shouting, he simply steps into Malfoy’s personal space and throws his arms around him. The blonde shoots him a stunned look.</p><p>Bored with the moment, Harry begins to dance, and doesn’t say anything. He just wants to be as happy. Thankfully, Malfoy doesn’t take too much time to recover and pulls Harry in.</p><p>Malfoy is a good dancer; Harry realises and he just lets go. Enjoying the moment and forgetting everything. Song, after song, passes. Another drink and more dancing. They split apart and come back together a few times. Thrills run through Harry’s body. He wants so bad.</p><p>Harry wants Malfoy. Now, tonight.</p><p>In a split-moment decision, Harry leans in to kiss Malfoy. Not thinking of the consequences, and for a few blissful seconds, Malfoy responds gorgeously. Sending ripples of intensity through Harry’s body, but then as quickly as it began, it stops, and Malfoy does the last thing Harry wants him to do. He steps away, looking unhappy with Harry.</p><p>Harry tries to shake the rejection off, but it overwhelms him. Malfoy has rejected him. Fuck, it’s not a good feeling. It almost, does that thing he can’t admit it doing. Harry takes a step back himself, anything to get away from Malfoy.</p><p>Away from this feeling.</p><p>“Harry….” Malfoy calls, but Harry is forcing his way through the crowd and loses himself. He pushes the beautiful blonde out of his mind, out of his soul. Forcing himself to forget the searing heat which is permanently tattooed into his own lips now.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>
  <strong>(TW: Attempted Rape. Please skip if you need to!)</strong>
</p><p>.</p><p>He drinks and takes something he doesn’t know the name of, given to him by some new friends he makes. Then the world turns even fuzzier, and Harry feels himself being pulled somewhere, but he doesn’t know where or actually what is even happening. Harry feels like he’s both floating and stuck on the bottom of the ocean.</p><p>He feels fingers on his clothes, on his skin…they’re trying to take something, but Harry can’t remember what. It hurts. He doesn’t want to be here anymore, but he can’t stop it. There are two voices. Familiar, yet not. It’s so confusing, and they’re everywhere. He feels nails on his skin, pulling so taught until it snaps open. Blood drops. Head forced back, and lips on his neck. He doesn’t feel any of the relief. This is just people talking, not giving anything. Maybe it’s all he’s worth. More pulling at clothes and pushing. Water gathers at his eyes, but it stays put. Tears mean this is happening.</p><p>A frantic movement behind him, and he feels his robes been pulled aside and laughs. Do they know he doesn’t want this? He can’t fight them. His limbs are weakening. He cries out, he thinks it might be a whisper but then a thumping sound happens. The hands holding him up, fall away, and he crashes down to the wet floor. It smells so bad he realises. Glass shatters, and a roaring echoes around the room. A spell flies, Harry can only tell because the words sound familiar. Then a door slams and warm arms pull him up. It’s still hazy but a flash of blonde fills up the sliver of sight he still has.</p><p>“It’s okay Harry, you’ll be okay.”</p><p>And then Harry blacks out.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Summary: Harry runs from Draco. Upset that he was rejected, and continues to get more drunk and takes something which disorientates him. He finds himself taken somewhere, and some unsavoury people try to take advantage of him. He tries to resist but struggles to control his body. He almost gives in, when a stranger saves him and reassures him he will be ok. Harry blacks out.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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